


part the shadows, my love

by Iris_Duncan_72



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Violence, bird imagery, felix's look from the top mv will haunt me until my dying day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24893749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iris_Duncan_72/pseuds/Iris_Duncan_72
Summary: Sorrowful are the songs that echo in the shadows.
Relationships: Hwang Hyunjin/Lee Felix
Comments: 16
Kudos: 66





	part the shadows, my love

**Author's Note:**

> [born entirely of this song.](https://open.spotify.com/track/7LUqiiRi0GsAiuPhskLzb3?si=TA572o4ESviice_SCbhO7g)

There is a bird in a cage.

A pretty cage for a pretty bird, the thin bars of gilded steel binding glistening white feathers in place. The gaps are too narrow for anyone to reach in but the songbird stays close to the centre of his cage, as though this might protect him from bottomless eyes that drink him in, rows of teeth that flash in twisted glee. They covet his feathers, his pale blue eyes, his snowy lashes and hair, but above all else they covet his voice.

They rattle his cage, baying for his song, for his blood, so he gives them the one he can survive without, pitching his voice low and sweet and smooth as honey, till his insatiable audience sighs, enraptured. He knows the power he has. He knows the high of his song is better than any drug, any hallucinogen, so he sings and sings and sings until his throat aches. Only this way does he keep them from tearing apart the cage and ripping through his flesh with their long fingers and long nails, desperate to consume any part of their beloved feathered panacea.

There is no sun, no sky outside the cage. When the bird must rest, a black velvet hood drapes over the bars, hiding him from the world, and when he must sing, the hood is removed and heavy, flickering lights dance over his feathers, twinkling like the stars he distantly remembers. He is fed and watered within his cage, this cold little world with its silken nest in the centre, so artificial his skin crawls, but even pretty songbirds need to stretch their wings every now and then. The spidery hands that jealously guard his cage do not allow this. Instead, they clip his wings with awful blades, stealing his feathers to dole out among the voracious watchers. They do not mind his screams, for his voice is beautiful in all its forms, and they clamour for the honour of a feather stained with even a single drop of silver blood.

The bird knows his soul is being starved and he welcomes the time when he will no longer draw breath, when he will finally be free of this cage and the monsters that circle it. He has no hope of any other escape, having been here so long that he cannot remember the feel of the wind on his skin, nor the taste of the rain on his tongue.

But then.

Then something changes.

Nothing has ever changed before and the songbird notices the difference. He feels eyes upon him as he sings, eyes that are gentle in a way none of the others are. These eyes do not wish to rend him limb from limb to lap at the ichor in his veins nor strip his wings of feathers. But when he looks through the bars, he sees only the thick shadows and the dancing lights, the empty eyes and the sharp teeth. Perhaps his mind is fragmenting, creating an imaginary safe harbour in the sea of vicious hunger that laps at him, straining at the bars of the cage.

His songs are sad that time, grieving the loss of something he was sure would never leave him, mourning the final extinguishing of his internal sanctum where no-one can reach. The watchers howl and wail, their tears an acidic mockery of the rain he once missed but now can barely remember.

But there is another change.

His wings are pruned again, ruthless and harsh, and his cries split the air, bleak with despair and anguish. He writhes on the floor of his cage, ichor smearing across his skin until he glitters and shines like a fallen star. The watchers shriek and snatch at his broken feathers, thoughtless and urgent.

And he feels the gentle gaze turn hard, scraping and jagged. It burns icy cold and burning hot, reaching him as nothing from the outside ever has. The songbird is terrified and his screams change in pitch, hoarse and visceral, for none of the options are good. Either his cracked mind is turning on him, his small haven turning sour, or a watcher has found a way past the gilded bars and he is not safe for they will devour him without hesitation.

But the eyes leave him, his flesh no longer searing with their ferocity, and the relief is so strong that he falls quiet, mute and panting as he cranes his neck to stare outside the cage. He tries to find the watcher who has found him, but to no avail. The others have noticed the absence of his song and are already growing restless, their attention turning from the delicate fingers they clutch at to him, impatient and demanding. But he is tired and distracted, searching for the one whose presence heralds _change_.

Spidery hands strike the cage and he flinches, curling up small. The bars do not stop those hands and if he does not sing, they will prise through the narrow spaces and drag his song from him one agonising note at a time. So he sags limply and lifts his voice in a rough croon, an enticement, beseeching. He sings for the watcher who does not fear the hands, who is not stymied by the cage, and soon those burning eyes are on him again. They dig into him, sharp and biting, but his wings still bleed and he does not falter.

 _Do what you will_ , he sings, _for it has all been done before and the final release would be a blessing._

The gaze becomes a stare, boring into him with relentless focus, burrowing to the marrow of his bones. _No,_ it replies. _You may not have your release. I forbid it._

 _You must live,_ it seems to say, _for I have found you at last._

Still the songbird cannot see where this strange watcher is but suddenly he knows where they _were_ because the others begin to screech. From this direction, then that, with no rhyme or reason, bellows of pain and fear erupt. They stampede, trampling one another in their efforts to flee whatever is attacking them, and now it is his turn to watch as they crumble one by one. Their teeth are shattered, they hollow eyes gouged out, their long fingers broken, till the flickering lights illuminate the tar of their blood, splashed everywhere, and their immense forms lie motionless.

The spidery hands lash out, wielding choking shadow and heavy light with ease as they seek the watcher with the burning eyes. But the watcher does not fear even them and the songbird catches a glimpse of skin like molten gold before the hands flutter to the ground like macabre feathers, ruined.

The bird drags himself upright, crawling on his knees to the bars. He is careful not to touch but he watches, the agony of his wings dull, all his attention turned outward. There is a lightness to the air, now that there is only him and the golden watcher, and he waits. Hope is an unfamiliar texture under his flesh, rustling through his feathers, lining his lungs. He’d forgotten how sweet it tastes and he breathes it in deep, hoping, hoping.

Burning eyes prick his skin but he does not shy, hearing their words. _Shield your eyes,_ they say. _I would not incite fear in you._

 _You have cast down all but one of my fears_ , he sings, quiet and filled with the courage of hope. _I will not look away from you._

The lights dance, shadows stretching around a distant figure that slowly creeps closer. Gold glimmers and he does not blink. The figure is shaped like him, only with vermillion, crimson, and orange scales where he has stark white feathers. The watcher slinks up to the cage and burning eyes painted with all the rosiness of dawn pour into pale blue until the bird’s eyes water and weep. The bright heat is so much more than he is used to but it whispers of the sun and he will never turn away from the sun again, never, never. It has been so long since last he saw it, since last it bathed his skin.

The songbird does not ask what the watcher has come for the answer is what it has always been, only different in eyes that are both gentle and searing, unlike when he saw it in the empty eyes of the audience.

Instead, he holds his hand out, a request to touch contained only by the bars of the cage, and croons, _Will you free me?_

A sun-kissed hand reaches out to him and the bars disintegrate at once, as though recoiling from the glowing skin. The watcher’s fingers brush his own and the songbird cries, silently as he has not been permitted to in an eon. Shimmering white twines with honey-gold and his soul breathes for the first time since he was shut in the cage.

The hand tugs him up into the air, sleek scales bearing them aloft. Shadows cling to his feathers, unwilling to let him go, but the watcher who is a child of the sun chases them away with fierce eyes. The air grows less dense, thinner and twined with a clear light the songbird vaguely recalls. Up above, colour and warmth beckon, growing closer with every moment, but he looks to his rescuer.

 _Will you cage me?_ he asks, his voice richer and purer than it has been in so long. _Will my feathers and song be bound by you too?_

Rosy eyes flash with dangerous heat, scorching him. _Never,_ they tell him, adamant. _I have missed you for an age, my love, but I will not bind you anywhere._

Distant memory stirs deep in the songbird’s mind, murmuring that the sun-child speaks truly, that once he had willingly sung a thousand songs for a thousand sun cycles to prove his own love. He considers how long he has been alone and he considers the warmth of the hand in his own.

 _Then will you follow me instead? I have forgotten how to fly._ Both with his wings and in his soul but he thinks the sun-child who watches him so gently could remind him how.

Pink lips on a golden face part in a smile that holds no malice, no avarice. _It will be my honour, my love._

Then the last of the shadows disappear behind them and they have burst out into fresh air. The blue sky is an endless blanket in all directions, the wind is a teasing caress, and the sun is so very warm.

When the songbird next lifts his voice, the song is one of fathomless joy.

**Author's Note:**

> you know the guests from little nightmares? yeah, they're what im imagining for the watchers.


End file.
